


Wolf Like Me

by usefulobject



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scars, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 22:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21216056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usefulobject/pseuds/usefulobject
Summary: Local Dad uses this One Weird Trick to obtain discount Wargs! (Dwarves HATE him!)





	Wolf Like Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of me completely failing at that “10 Songs” thing a while back. But I liked the snippet that turned into this.
> 
> Sharkû is that handsome boy from The Two Towers movie who leads the Warg riders. I read from a canonical appendix* that he’d fought in the Goblin Wars and I just really like the idea of an Orc sticking around that long long through dumb luck.
> 
> *an action figure box

Blotchy clouds crawled across the night sky, revealing intermittent glimpses of a full moon. The breeze sent gentle ripples through the tall, dry grass that covered the plains on the border of Azog’s territory. It wasn’t enough to dispel the smothering dampness hanging heavy in the air, and the three Orcs hunkered in a cave set in a stony hillside had been cursing and wishing the shadows overhead would show some mercy and send a thunderstorm to crack open the sky and let it breathe again.

The Orc sitting on a weathered supply crate grumbled as it creaked in unison with his body. The damp made his hones achy, which he would never admit; it was the last remaining vestige of insecurity about his great age. He was fairly sure his name was Narmaz at one point, but now, he was simply Sharkû, the Old Man, and it no longer bothered him.

His one remaining ear pricked up at the rhythmic sound of heavy footsteps approaching. He didn’t need to stick his head outside to know who it was. With a wave of his arm, he ordered the two scouts to piss off for a while, and maybe go find something to eat besides the rapidly decaying scraps of meat they’d scavenged at the edge of the woods. None of them was really all that hungry and they were seasoned enough to go without for a few days more, but it gave them something useful to do, and more importantly, would let him conduct his business uninterrupted.

The sounds of the Wargs faded out as his guest appeared. The hulking frame blocking the hazy moonlight was unmistakable. 

His unblemished, marble-white skin and vivid blue eyes led to whispers about who might’ve fucked what sort of _Golug_ somewhere up the line, and his stick-straight back (and general demeanor, especially towards his underlings) inspired jokes about whoever made his claw planting an iron rod up his arse, too. He resembled the ancient statues keeping silent watch over the crumbling ruins hidden in dark corners of the world more than he resembled any Orc in living memory.

He made Sharkû think of the fish that lived in the still, impenetrably deep waters of mountain caves, the twists and turns of their crooked pink veins visible through their translucent flesh.

They’d crossed paths months ago and agreed to a tenuous deal, the possibility of breeding one of Azog’s forest Wargs with one of Sharkû’s plains-dwellers, and to both their surprise the bitch had not only been receptive but whelped a large, healthy litter of rambunctious hybrid pups. Azog had returned to collect. Sharkû shuffled to his feet and performed an exaggerated bow before sitting back down.

If Azog was bothered by sarcastic genuflection, he didn’t let on, and got straight to the point. Sharkû begrudgingly admired that. “Pick of the litter, remember?” Azog’s gaze darted toward a sandy-colored pup just outside the cave entrance, gnawing on a splintered chunk of a tree branch, growling and shaking it in its jaws as if it was tormenting some unfortunate vermin before finally snapping its neck.

“Nar, I never said that.” In truth, he remembered perfectly well that he had, but he wasn’t about to let this fancy-looking bastard push him around so easily. “But I could be persuaded.” Azog and his pack were accomplished raiders. The Defiler clearly had accumulated so much treasure it was becoming a burden, making him stony and paranoid, and Sharkû merely wanted to help ease his troubles.

Azog narrowed his eyes and shifted in place, bringing his clawed arm forward.

“Then again, I could be remembering wrong,” said Sharkû, tapping at his marred temple. “After all, I am so _very_ fucking old.” The pale Orc was unmoved, even after Sharkû flashed him a smirk.

“Stop making this more difficult than it needs to be,” Azog snarled.

“Y’know, Wargs will eat almost anything, but I’m pretty sure you still catch them easier with honey than vinegar. At least sit down and rest a moment. What’s your hurry? The weather’s foul.”

Azog wrinkled his nose and relented, parking himself on the ground in front of Sharkû. The air grew even heavier as they sized each other up, swapping uneasy small talk.

“...and Bolg keeps whinging that he wants a Warg of his own, but I don’t think he’s old enough. Not that I want to coddle him. But he’s growing fast and going through that clumsy stage where his brain doesn’t quite reach his limbs in time, and it seems like begging for trouble to add a beast with fangs and claws to that.”

Sharkû laughed, snorting and making a bizarre wheeze through the bad side of his face. “Hah! You think one son is trouble? Try having fourteen.” And those were merely the ones he knew of, not to mention all his daughters...

For the first time since they’d met, Azog’s face broke into a genuine smile.

“Yeah, I saw Morgoth fall and eat shit in the North, _and_ had that many children, and I’m still here. Relax. The world isn’t as harsh as it seems.”

He reached down and ran his hand along the iron spike protruding from the stump of Azog’s arm, admiring the smooth, solid metal. “That’s a nice piece of work. You don’t see Elves or Men like us,” he said, gesturing at the metal shards criss-crossing the deep scars on his forehead. “I suppose their folk just kill them and be done with it, rather than try to repair their injuries. Elves especially seem like the vain and wasteful sort. Putting little fussy golden stitches all over their clothes when they’re just going to get stabbed and covered in blood anyway.”

Azog was only half listening. He didn’t find his claw nearly as fascinating as Sharkû did. It was just _there_, like any other part of him. Though he knew certain parts would prove more useful than others as he pressed on with his negotiations.

Sharkû let out a small snort as Azog rested his hand on his leg. Orc-flesh only grew tougher with age, and coiled sinew flexed beneath his leathery skin as Azog slid his hand further up the other Orc’s thigh. “Mmmm.” .He leaned into Azog’s touch. It _had_ been an awfully long time. Meanwhile, he still clasped the claw in an odd mockery of hand-holding. “Must be frustrating, having only one hand. Did you ever accidentally hurt yourself, using that without thinking?”

“Stop talking,” said Azog through clenched fangs as he yanked his arm back. He pulled Sharkû to the edge of his seat and nudged his legs farther apart with his claw, then shoved the Warg-rider’s loincloth to the side. Sharkû’s heart jumped and thudded erratically for a moment, then settled on simply beating very fast. His half-hard cock sprang to attention when Azog’s heated breath blasted against his skin.

He traced the patterns carved into Azog’s skin, following the smooth reddened grooves like a map, following the crisscrossing roads over the mountains and ridges of his shoulders and thighs and stomach. Long ago, he would’ve gotten pissy about it all, would’ve gone off on Azog with a big speech, spitting through his teeth about how scars are earned, not a decoration to pat yourself on the back with because you wanted to look tough and special while being neither. But he was, indeed, so very fucking old, and had learned long ago to pick his battles, philosophical or otherwise. He wouldn’t have lasted half this long if he hadn’t.

Sharkû was pleasantly surprised by how gentle Azog was with his mouth. Those sharp, unbroken teeth had given him pause at first, but Azog was careful, if a bit impatient. Sharkû guessed he’d done this at least a couple times before and not gotten slugged in the face for his performance. Perhaps King Shit Under Fuck Mountain wasn’t so tightly wound after all. He slid his tongue up and down along the length of Sharkû’s shaft, occasionally stopping to focus on the head. What he lacked in finesse he made up for in enthusiasm, and the idea that someone _wanted_ him, still, after Ages, made Sharkû feel warm in ways that went beyond simple physical pleasure, stirring up embers he thought had died long ago. As the tension built up in him, he pushed against Azog’s face. “I don’t want it to end yet.” The pale Orc released him from his jaws and leaned back.

Azog had his hand shoved inside his loincloth. Sharkû climbed off his makeshift seat, reached over, and undid his belt. “Allow me. You _are_ my guest.” Azog shifted his hand away as the other Orc tossed the heavy garment aside.

“Niiiice,” he hissed as he crouched down to get closer. Azog’s cock was stiff and thick, and it jumped when Sharkû traced the vein on its underside with his fingers. The pale Orc’s pulse quickened and he made a chuffing sound through his nostrils as Sharkû played with it, stroking the shaft and gliding the foreskin back and forth over the dampening head. He jolted and gasped when Sharkû bent down and rubbed against it with the rough side of his face, letting out a gravelly moan.

Azog grabbed the smaller Orc by the shoulder and pushed him face-down towards the ground. “No,” Sharkû said, rolling to the side. “We’re doing this face to face. It’s what separates us from the animals. Now _sit_.”

Azog lowered himself, breathing fast and heavy. Sharkû grabbed a jar of saddle-grease from a bag nearby and crammed his fingers in it, then got to work preparing himself to be impaled, taking a long, deep breath as he twisted his fingers in and out of his ass. Satisfied that he was as ready as he’d ever be, he straddled Azog’s muscled thighs, and positioned himself in place, sucking in a sharp gasp through his teeth and squinting his eyes shut.

“You don’t have to...” Azog mumbled when his dick met resistance at the other Orc’s entrance.

“Worry about yourself,” said Sharkû, pressing against him and rolling his haunches slightly until the tip made it through. “Do I look like someone who’s going to let a little discomfort stop me?” And with that, he finished slowly sinking down onto Azog’s cock, exhaling as a smile spread across his mangled face. He began to buck, but after a minute he paused, tilted his head, and stared into Azog’s icy eyes. “I thought you were the Defiler. Don’t just sit there like you’re dead. _Give it to me_.”

Azog huffed. Sharkû shuddered as he felt the cold barbs of Azog’s claw dance across his back, grazing his skin in shaky trails. “Careful with that,” he teased. Azog replied by slamming his hips upward. He broke into a wide grin as Sharkû bounced on his dick, gasping and tightening his grip on the bigger Orc’s shoulders.

The pale Orc’s aim improved as he noticed which angle got the best reaction out of the Warg-rider. Sharkû’s jaws hung open, gasping as Azog’s shaft rammed its target. Heat crackled and radiated through his body. His cock throbbed and gushed onto Azog’s stomach, and he threw his head back and howled. A brief flash of sensation, like a snippet of a half-remembered dream, flooded over him. A warm breeze, the sound of ocean waves, sunlight without pain. And in an instant, while his body tightened and released with a final shudder, it dissipated jut as quickly, and he was once again in a dark cave, shivering.

He slouched forward, arms slung around Azog’s neck, and rested against the larger Orc. A low growl rose up from Azog’s chest and rumbled against Sharkû’s skin as Azog’s thrusts grew more urgent. He felt a burst of heat inside him and Azog grunted as if trying to hold back, but his body clenched one last time and a roar broke through and escaped his throat.

Sharkû clambered down off Azog, legs shaking, and let himself melt into a heap on the floor. 

Azog stood, snatched his clothing up, and composed himself, again quiet and rigid as stone. Only the sheen of sweat covering him hinted that he’d momentarily lost his poise.

“So, the spirited one with the tan fur is mine, yes?”

Sharkû propped himself up and nodded. “Take two,” he said, still catching his breath. “One less thing I’ve got to keep track of and feed.”

Azog dropped a small drawstring pouch by the Warg-rider. It jingled as it hit the floor, and a few coins scattered. Sharkû barely noticed through the fog that still enveloped him, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. 

The sky lit up and thunder crashed. The air took on the smell of grass and newly stirred-up coil as the sound of rain drummed against the cave. And so the two Orcs parted, each one certain he’d got the better end of the deal. Indeed, Middle-earth wasn’t always as harsh as it seemed.


End file.
